


a shadow's touch

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Tension, Touch-Starved, clothed orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Feron has a need, though he will not ask for it. Grimaud has a solution, though he will not offer it.
Relationships: Lucien Grimaud/Feron
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	a shadow's touch

All his life, Feron has walked in the shadows of others.

First it was his mother, who scorned all affection for him and abandoned him to a wet nurse; detesting the sight of the bastard infant who looked at her with too much of her brother’s eyes and her father’s nose and too little of the man she wanted.

Then it was his father, though Feron was never bold enough to say out loud that the king was his. That was a secret whispered to the creases in his fingers, to his pillow, and to the moon looming outside his window. Secrets grew like weeds in every crack of that massive palace, a dry rot threatening to collapse the roof whilst the royal family slept, blissfully unaware. At times Feron himself felt like a festering boil, ready to burst at the slightest provocation.

Now, he skulks in the shadow of his brother — their affection for one another tenuous and conditional, his brother extending kindness only when it suits his fancy. But Feron is older, having learned how to bend his invisibility to his advantage, and he finds it infinitely simple to remain out of sight of both the assassin’s knife and the public’s scorn.

His family — oh, they could all drop dead for how little he cares.

“I would see them all hanged,” he admits in a moment of sentimental weakness, staring at the dregs in his glass.

He sits by the grate where the neglected fire has dwindled to a pitiful glow. With a grimace, he throws his head back, draining the last of the medicated wine. He lets the glass dangle from his fingers, but before it can slip and fall to the floor, shattering into countless pieces, Grimaud steps forward and takes it from him.

Feron winces, chuckling to mask his surprise. His pain sharpens everything but his senses, dulling the room around him. Turning his head is like pricking himself with a thousand needles, but he needs to see; he needs to know.

Grimaud stands several paces behind him at the table where the crystal decanter sits. He replaces the glass on the tray with the others. In the gloom, his features are obscured. He looks like a shadow detached from the wall.

“I did not hear you arrive, Lucien. I would have ordered more wine, had I known.”

“There’s no need.” Grimaud reenters the dim circle of light by the fire, eyeing Feron critically. Even here, at Feron’s side, every step is efficient, calculated. “We’ve taken the gunpowder shipment. It’s stored in a warehouse outside Paris, ready when you are.”

Feron sighs. He attempts to sit up, but his legs scream from the exertion. He slumps back, holding his hand over the bottom half of his face.

“Yes, that’s,” he hesitates, his brain recalling the orders for Grimaud and his men to take the gunpowder, pluck it right out from under the army’s nose, but it is a muddy recollection, “good. Good, Lucien. You do fine work, as usual.”

The shadow shifts, and Feron finds himself eye-to-eye with Grimaud as he kneels before him. The firelight cast deep shadows across his face, and his eyes are black and cunning.

Oh, he looks so very young, and Feron feels so very old.

A hand covers his knee with enough pressure to comfort and not so much as to worsen his pain. The touch sends a traitorous thrill up Feron’s leg, and he lets his thigh fall open more. Be it pain or lust, his body has always failed him, it would seem.

“Have you taken anything?” Grimaud asks in a low voice.

Feron chuckles again, finally removing his hand from his face.

“It doesn’t help.” Another spasm seizes him, and his teeth clench with a hiss. A second hand rests at his waist, holding him until he collapses against the chair. A pitiful whine leaves him as his eyes squeeze shut. “Lucien, Lucien…”

The name tumbles from him like a prayer, begging for some kind of release, any form of reprieve. His chin dips forward to his chest as the name dissolves into sobs.

“Shhh— none of that now.” Grimaud tucks some loose hair behind his ear, his touch lingering by Feron’s jaw.

He leans into Grimaud’s hand — _treacherous_ want, how his body betrays him at every turn — and as pleasure mixes with pain, as Grimaud wipes a stray tear from his cheek, Feron thinks deliriously about how so many men have marched through his life like this: pretty things with big eyes and lean legs who knew just what to say to distract Feron from his wretched life; young men with wicked smiles and curling tongues who knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure to give, how to nip, bite, lick, and fuck Feron to the edge of his sanity.

Love makes men weak — on that, he and Grimaud are in agreement. But whether it is love or weakness that makes him tip forward, closer to Grimaud, Feron knows that he has been unable to bring himself to a proper cockstand in months. His infirmary has made it so. Still, there is a warm buzz in his belly and between his legs when Grimaud helps him stand.

“Shall I take you to your bed?” he asks.

Feron nods, not trusting his voice. He leans heavily on Grimaud as he leads him across the room. When they reach the bed, the heat has spread inside Feron, making every inch of his skin twitch from far more than pain. Grimaud lowers him onto the blankets, and were Feron a younger man, he might have had the courage to hook his fingers into the edge of Grimaud’s cuirass and invite him down with him.

As it is, he groans when Grimaud plants his hand in the center of his chest. Feron opens his eyes to find Grimaud with one knee on the mattress, head bent over his, a curious frown on his face. He presses his hand harder, sliding it down Feron’s chest to his belly. The touch is strong enough that Feron can feel the outline of Grimaud’s leather glove through the linen of his shirt.

The levee breaks, and Feron arches. His head thuds against the pillows, a gasp catching in his throat as he convulses. Grimaud keeps him pinned with one hand on his hip, the other on his shoulder. He leans over him, close enough that Feron feels his breath against his forehead.

The aftermath leaves Feron exhausted. Droplets of sweat cling to his neck, and there is an uncomfortable dampness within his breeches. Grimaud pulls away, sounding oddly winded himself. Feron glances at him, but his face is inscrutable in the darkness.

He wets his lips.

“Was there anything else, Lucien?” he asks, his voice weak and breathless.

“No.”

“Good.” He rolls onto his side, his body complaining even from that small adjustment. He grunts when Grimaud pulls the corner of the blanket over his shoulder. “We’ll discuss buyers for the gunpowder tomorrow. Leave me.”

He is barely done speaking before Grimaud exits, disappearing as silently as a ghost. Feron sighs, glaring at the empty space Grimaud leaves behind.

In his weakness, Feron has revealed far too much of himself, and he cannot help but wonder how he shall pay for it.

And yet, when he closes his eyes and attempts to sleep, he finds himself plunging into dreams where rough hands pick him apart with precise, deliberate strokes; where they tangle into his hair, trace the shape of his mouth, bruise the pale skin of his hips, and tug on his cock until it remembers the vigor of its youth.

He chokes on the man’s name.

Even in dreams, he cannot put a face onto a shadow.

**Author's Note:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
